Just a Tat Too Much
by Ellawritesficssometimes
Summary: FrUK ONE-SHOT- Arthur runs a tattoo parlour, one that he's very proud of. If only he didn't have to be outshined by a flamboyant, over-the-top flower shop across the street. Don't even get him started on the insufferable git who runs said shop. (Punk! Arthur). Fic Exchange with browsofglory :)))


**A/N** : OMG! LOOK AT MOI, DOING ANOTHER FIC/PROMPT EXCHANGE WITH ANOTHER FANTASTIC AUTHOR :D

Lol, anyways. I would like to thank " **browsofglory** " for giving me this prompt. I gave them one too. The fic is titled " **Arthur and Francis Go to Couple's Therapy** "

Please make sure to go and check them out after this :D They're amazing, and sweet, and overall just a great person to talk to. I have some of their stories in my favourites ;) They're extremely vivid in their writing. Their fine attention to detail is what I aspire to be!

Thank you again, this was really fun! Enjoy~!"

* * *

 **Just a Tat Too Much:**

Let me enlighten you with a tale of just how shitty and ironic my life is. My college years had brought me unprecedented wonders; I excelled as one as the top students in my business school. Unfortunately, this endeavor had also entailed the acquirement of a rival, Francis.

Francis was a stuck-up Frenchman, who I could only handle in small doses before having to suppress the urge to throttle him. He was arrogant, nosy, and knew just how to get under my nerves. He was bright and lively in both appearance and personality, whereas I preferred to wear dark colors and drink bitter tea to match my cold, 'soulless' heart. We were like day and night, if you want to get figurative with the descriptions.

For some reason, Francis found our differences to be part of some bigger picture. A picture where we would someday be lovers. I humored Francis in our final year of college, teasing him on occasion, but never really taking him seriously. In all honesty, I thought that I would never see him again after we had graduated.

I couldn't have been more wrong.

I branched off to open and run a brand-new tattoo parlour of my own. All was swell and business was booming until a certain effeminate fiend from the past conveniently decided to open a flower and chocolates shop across the street from me. For those of you who are slow on the uptake, that effeminate fiend was none other than Francis. He followed me everywhere in college, so it was really quite foolish to have believed that he wouldn't have done the same in the workplace.

My shop looked utterly ridiculous next to his. Where my parlour was dark, gothic and, full of blacks and shades of crimson, Francis's shop was a hue of rosy reds and pinks, smiles, and sunshine. The folks leaving his shop would gawk at my parlour in horror – _admittedly, this was one of the most amusing parts of the job_ – taking in the skulls, crosses, bones, and demon decorative designs as if they just seen the gates of hell.

Nothing felt better to me than watching 'ordinary' people get flustered over my shop and those who worked in it. So what if we had more piercings, scars, and ink on our bodies? I've often been mistaken for a demon or Satanist, as absurd as that may seem. Perhaps the pentagram designs on my arms didn't help with that impression, but what can I say?

I didn't give a rat's arse about what people thought of me. I owned my business, and I would conduct it however I pleased to. I didn't have to worry about 'being unemployable' because of my tattoos; my work life revolved around them. The only people to please were my customers; certainly not a snide Frenchman who thought that he could woo me over to the 'vibrant side of life'.

I had taken the early morning shift today, which meant that I wouldn't be dealing with too many customers. Most people came to the parlour at night, especially when they were drunk. Who was I to refuse service? Money was money, and even if the tattoo a customer had chosen was ghastly and horrid, as long as they signed the release forms, my workers would happily adorn them with their mid-life existential crisis tramp-stamp. We did offer tattoo removal services, after all. One drunken mistake could easily be rectified with a fat wad of cash!

Oh, don't give me that pissy look. Yes, yes, I recognize that I'm a complete asshole. Get over it, darling. It's a brutal world out there. A gentleman's got to survive somehow.

Currently, I was sprawled over the glass front counter, face cupped by both hands. I began to bite off the black nail polish from my nails, knowing that I had a long day ahead of me. I looked outside the window, spotting a little girl peering inside my shop. I shed her with a cryptic grin, revealing the fake pair of fangs that my co-worker Vlad had insisted that we all wear. Apparently, it added to the 'aesthetic' of the parlour.

The little girl licked her strawberry ice cream cone, green eyes wide with curiosity. Curiosity quickly became terror when she spotted me grinning at her. "Hullo, dear," I mouthed, running my tongue over my lips.

"Big bruder!" the little girl gasped, dropping her ice cream cone on the pavement, the ribbon in her hair flying behind her as she ran away in the opposite direction. "There's a mean monster who wants to eat me!"

I chuckled to myself. "Monster, huh?" I mused. "Well, that's certainly a new one."

Pleased with causing childhood traumatization so early in the day, I went back to lounging lazily on the front counter. Usually by now Francis would have visited to tease and/or flirt with me. Just what was he up to today? Oh well, can't say that I cared all that much.

 **BRING!**

I looked up, expecting to see said Frenchman, only to scowl when I realized that it was my half-brother, Alfred. The oaf looked absolutely miserable. His wheat-blond hair was sticking up more than usual, his blue eyes puffy and wide with fear. He reminded me of a cornered animal who had nowhere to go…the defeated expression on his face was concerning.

He was wearing a Hawaiian print blouse that was tucked into a hideous pair of quesadilla print leggings. Yes, you heard me correctly, leggings. The guzzler hat that he wore on his head made me roll my eyes so far back that I was nearly blinded.

The twat had gotten black-out drunk again.

"Artie! Artie!" Alfred wailed, running towards me, figurative tail hanging between his legs. "I fucked up, man! So bad! So fucking bad!"

I jumped a little when Alfred slammed his massive hands on the counter.

"Get your filthy hands off the glass!" I snapped. "I just cleaned it this morning. And you know how I don't like talking to people until I've had at least three cups of tea in me!"

Alfred gave me an incredulous look. "Dude! I know you have no soul, but could you at least pretend to be concerned for your little brother?!"

"Oh?" I hummed, crossing my arms. "And why should I be concerned? What could you have possibly done that's bad enough for you to abandon your pride and come crawling to _me_ for advice?"

Alfred whimpered, looking like a vulnerable five-year-old child. "Okay, first, screw you. Who shit in your morning bowl of blood of the unborn? And second, I got drunk…"

"Congratulations, twat-face," I scoffed. "I think the quesadilla-themed leggings already made that obvious enough. What are you trying to do? Protest Trump's wall by ignorantly perpetuating harmful stereotypes? Oh, and very funny."

Alfred sighed, still too intoxicated to come up with a clever rebuttal. "Look, you jackass," he scowled. "I really do need your help."

"Whatever happened to 'I'm fine, Arthur. Stop worrying. I'm not going to party in college. Stop sticking your pasty finger up my butthole?'" I smirked.

"Okay, Christ!" Alfred cussed. "Do you always have to be right?"

"I wouldn't have to be right all the time if you hadn't grown up to become such an insufferable moron," I retorted, only to falter when Alfred leveled me with an unamused glare. "All right, all right. I think you've suffered enough. What happened? What did your drunken arse decide to do last night?"

Alfred pushed himself off the counter, turning his back to me. He pulled down his pants before I even had the chance to say anything. "Just look," Alfred whined.

I covered my eyes, nearly knocking over my mug of tea. "Fucking hell, Alfred!" I snarled. "You could have at least warned me!"

Alfred stifled a sob. "Just look at it, will ya? You can lecture me later."

This job didn't pay me enough for what I was about to see, or rather un-see.

Through the spaces of my fingers, I peaked at Alfred's bum. There on his right cheek, was a palm sized tattoo of an eagle.

"Did you see it yet?" Alfred asked, no doubt on the verge of bawling his eyes out from the shame of his drunken mistake.

"Just one moment," I bit my lip, suppressing a snicker. I pulled out my phone, snapped a quick picture, and saved it to drive. "All right, I've seen enough." _Hello, new Christmas cards…_

Alfred pulled up his pants and turned around. It was a good thing that no people were outside to witness this potential, not to mention unwanted, flash. "So," he said, his voice jittery and nervous. "Can you fix it?"

"Fix what?" I asked, despite knowing exactly what he meant.

"You know," Alfred whispered. "Remove my tattoo…?"

"Do you have a spare three grand lying around?"

"Arthur!" Alfred shouted.

"Fine," I relented. "You can come in tomorrow at 8. Lukas will be working then. You might need several laser treatments though…"

"Why can't you do it?" Alfred blushed.

I shook my head in disbelief. "I've seen your bum enough times when I changed your diapers. You've really pushed it this morning."

Alfred sighed, bowing his head. "I wanted freedom for this country, not an invitation for guys and gals to grab my ass," he muttered.

"Please," I grinned, hoping to cheer up the poor sap. Being sad didn't suit him. "The only time your butt is ever free is when you've had an unhealthy dose of Chipotle."

Alfred laughed, only to have his stomach growl, and loudly at that.

I shook my head in disbelief, opening the cash register to pull out a twenty. "Go get yourself some breakfast," I scolded, reaching over to ruffle his hair. "Mum isn't going to be very happy if she finds out that you've been skipping out on your classes again."

Alfred's expression brightened considerably. "Does this mean you won't tell her about the tattoo?"

"Of course not! She already doesn't approve of this parlour. The last thing I need is for something to justify her prejudice."

Alfred skirted around the counter and pulled me into a bone-crushing hug. "Thanks, Artie!" he exclaimed, bellowing into my ear loud enough to cause my piercings to rattle. "You're the best!"

"Sod off, and go brush your teeth!" I grunted, pushing Alfred's much taller and heavier person away. "I can still smell basic bimbo and tequila on your breath."

"HAHAHA!" Alfred cackled, blowing me a smug air kiss before opening the parlour's front door. "Nice one. And thanks a bunch. I'll remember this the next time you're looking for an excuse not to come to a family outing."

I smirked. "You know me so well."

Alfred said his goodbyes, slamming the door shut, despite how many times that I've told him _not_ to do that.

With the parlour empty again, I took a relaxing lunch break, enjoying the silence save for the rock metal softly playing in the background.

The sound of voices outside the parlour a half hour later prompted me to eavesdrop – I looked down so that they wouldn't catch me staring. I had very little entertainment during the day. The only interaction I could count on was an infuriating visit from Francis. Uh, not that I wanted the frog to visit me…of course not!

I stand corrected. Francis's moronic friends often visited me too. Except usually they were with Francis, not alone like they were now.

"But I don't want to go in," Antonio whined. "He's rude, and I don't like him."

"Stop being such a little bitch, Toni," Gilbert deadpanned. "We're doing this for Franny. Sometimes you've got to take one for the squad. Even if it means dealing with a scary, grumpy old man hiding in a 20-something-year-old-body."

The hair on the back of my neck prickled.

Okay, ouch.

Us 'demons' had feelings too, believe it or not.

"Fine," Antonio pouted.

 **BRING!**

Gilbert and Antonio strolled into the parlour, pathetically forcing grins on their faces.

Antonio's green eyes widened into saucers when he spotted the iron maiden prop lying on the wall to their right. His tanned cheeks flooded a faint pink as he nervously twirled the cross pendant wrapped around his neck. He was a very devoted Catholic.

Gilbert pulled up his sunglasses, nestling them in his chalk-white hair. "Arthur, mein sassy man. How goes business these days?" he asked, his crimson red eyes nervously flitting around the parlour.

"No business during the day, I'm afraid. Just nights," I mused. "Unless you two are interested in getting some tattoos?"

"Dios mio!" Antonio swore, jumping back like a spooked cat when he 'accidentally' poked and prodded at a mechanical skull prop. He hadn't been expecting it to shout: "The power of Satan tempts you!"

I pulled out a notebook, grabbed a pen, and crossed off a tally:

 _Antonio shits his pants for the 47th consecutive time upon touching that skull prop._

 _Poor bloke keeps forgetting about what it does._

While Antonio motioned the sign of the cross, Gilbert walked over to the front counter. "And what if we _were_ interested in getting tattoos? What would you say to that?"

Gilbert leaned a friendly arm over the counter, causing me to pull back in disgust. I fancied my personal space, thank you very much. "I'd say you were lying," I answered, narrowing my eyes at the German in suspicion.

"On the contrary," Gilbert smirked. "I hardly have any brows as it is, being an albino and all. Perhaps I'm in need of something more…prominent…"

I caught Gilbert looking at my eyebrows. "Is that a crack at my eyebrows?" I leered, gritting my teeth.

"Nein, nein!" Gilbert waved his hands back and forth. " _Your brows are glorious_ , truly," he winked.

I gave Gilbert a sour look; I didn't believe him at all.

Antonio yelped when Gilbert grabbed his arm and pulled him over to the counter. "Stick to the plan, and stop fucking around," Gilbert hissed through his teeth.

"You said we would get ice cream," Antonio whimpered, his mood reminding me of a puppy who had just been kicked in the stomach.

"Hmmph," I crossed my arms. These two were definitely up to something.

"So…" Gilbert drawled, his voice cracking awkwardly. "Those are some cool drawings you got there," he remarked, pointing behind the counter.

I glanced over my shoulder at the various drawings that were pinned up on a clothing line.

"Indeed," I hummed, winking at Antonio when I caught him childishly ogling at my gages. "Those are custom tattoos that clients draw up for us."

An awkward silence fell between the three of us.

Antonio's attention span was quick to fall elsewhere. "Oh!" he exclaimed. "That's a cool design!" He gestured towards a drawing of a crystalized rose.

Gilbert and Antonio exchanged suspicious glances.

Gilbert's cheeks spread into a shit-eating grin. "I never took you for a flower person?"

"I'm not," I huffed.

"But, you draw them on people? Surely you must like them?" Antonio asked.

"Ja, what's your favourite?" Gilbert chirped.

"I already told you, I'm not fond of flowers," I deadpanned.

Antonio pursed his lips. "How about chocolate? Your perfect idea of a date? Are you a top or bottom? Favourite sex pos-! Ay!"

Antonio yelped again when Gilbert elbowed him in the rib-cage. "Haven't you ever heard of being subtle?!" he spluttered.

"Oh, so that's what this is all about?" I rolled my eyes. "Well, you can tell that disgusting amphibian jerk friend of yours that if he truly wants to know the answers to those questions, then he can grow some balls and come here himself."

"So, you do like him!" Antonio exclaimed, beaming from cheek to cheek.

I picked up my favourite pen, which was styled as a decapitated finger. "I'm about two seconds away from shoving this down your happy-go-lucky throat," I warned. "Now, if you two imbeciles aren't here for tattoos, quit wasting my time and get the hell out!"

Antonio's eyes watered. "Okay," he sniffled.

Gilbert wrapped his arm around Antonio. "You monster!" he scolded. "You know how emotionally fragile he is. He doesn't like to be shouted at."

"Not my problem," I said, sticking up my nose.

"Lovi yells at me all the time," Antonio moped as Gilbert led him out of the parlour. "Why doesn't mi tomatito like me anymore? Am I not husband material?'"

Gilbert consolingly rubbed Antonio's arm. "Of course not. You're perfect husband material. Some people just don't appreciate how sweet and adorable you are."

I ignored Gilbert when he looked over his shoulder to glare at me.

When the front door shut, I drummed my nails against the counter, a devious smirk on my face.

I wonder what Francis would do next? After all, it was always good fun to make him flustered.

I had that pretty boy wrapped right around my finger.

…

I didn't have to wait long before Francis strolled into the parlour, his face smug with an infuriating smirk. He was wearing an open collar white blouse, loose denim capris, and his hair was kept in loose blond curls that fell to his shoulder. I felt a nerve in my temple twitch when I spotted the bouquet of roses that he had tucked under one of his hairy arms. He was like Gaston from Beauty in the Beast, save for the muscles, but was twice as grating and arrogant.

The heels of Francis's dress shoes clacked obnoxiously loud as he pranced over to the front counter. The smooth, purring tone of his voice did absolutely nothing for me. Nothing. "Would you like to explain to me why poor Antoine is sobbing? Or rather, explain to me what you did?"

My nostrils flared; the scent of Francis's rose perfume was suffocating. "He came here on his own free will. It's not my fault that he's a sensitive twit."

Francis rolled his eyes. "Oh, mon Dieu. That attitude is exactly why you're going to end up alone in life."

"The bouquet of flowers you're holding points otherwise," I huffed, lazily puffing out a few strands of fringe from my face.

Francis's expression lifted. "Does that mean you'll actually accept them this time?"

"Sure," I smirked, grabbing the bouquet of roses from him. "I'm always in need of something to burn. I can't have people finding out about the corpses we have stored in the back."

"Haha," Francis laughed dryly, placing on elbow on the counter. Shrewd blues eyes were met with an unforgiving forest of green. "Very funny. Let me guess, as soon as I leave, those will be going in the waste bin?"

"Hardly," I answered. "I forgot to get my mum something for Mother's Day. These should do just fine. Thanks, _truly_."

I was hoping that Francis would have given up and left by now.

But, oh no. No, no, no. Francis was just as stubborn as I was, remarkably.

Francis's eyes widened as we watched me tuck the bouquet in a cubby underneath the counter.

"You dyed your hair pink!" he blurted out.

I raised a heavy brow at him. "Why, thank you Captain Obvious. Oh, relax, it's just the tips."

"Wait!" I fumed. "Why am I telling you to relax?! It's my hair, I can do whatever the hell I want with it!"

I felt my face flush. Unfortunately, I wasn't wearing any concealer or foundation today.

Francis gasped, and in a blur of blond hair, he was suddenly behind the counter, looming over me. "Why?" he whimpered. "Why do you taint your natural beauty with these crude, unnatural colours?"

I grit my teeth. "I'll have you know that-! Oi! Geroff!"

Francis cupped my face with two warm hands, tilting it to the side as he shamelessly inspected me further. "Pink hair? Thick eyeliner? And is that a new brow piercing? Tsk! Tsk! And what is this?"

Francis used one hand to tug at the fish-net long sleeve shirt that I was wearing as a bottom layer.

I growled lowly under my breath when Francis let go of my face, instead opting to grab my right hand. "What am I, a bloody zoo animal?" I snapped. "Is it really that shocking that I have a different sense of style from you?"

Francis ignored me completely. "At least let me trim your nails. Hmmm. Or perhaps those unruly eyebrows of yours…"

"I'll h-have you know that I do in fact trim my eyebrows," I spluttered, feeling my face redden further. There was always something about Francis that caught me off guard and I hated it. I hated how warm his hands felt; how gentle his touch was; how he hummed softly under his breath when he was around me. He was a familiar face that intruded my personal space as if it were child's play.

But, for reasons inexplicable, I let him.

"All right, all right! That's enough groping out of you!" I huffed, shoving Francis's eager hands away from me.

Francis pouted, but gave me my space nonetheless by walking over to the other side of the counter, where he damn well belonged.

I sighed, knowing that he was expecting me to fill the gap in our conversation. Honestly, he could be such a child sometimes. "What did you come here for?"

Francis met my gaze, lips puckered in a stubborn grimace as he spoke. "You know why, Angleterre," he muttered. "I think we'd make a wonderful couple."

"That's why," he grinned, his expression suddenly becoming excited again. "I've come here to prove once and for all that I'm serious about you."

I bit my thumb, a nervous habit of mine. "Oh?" I asked, feeling as if I had just been winded. "And how are you going to do that?"

Damn him for making me feel this way. We've known each other for so long, and yet now he'd rendered me completely speechless. There was something about him today that was different, I could sense it. Behind the teasing look on his face, there was solid determination. And, to be perfectly honest, it frightened me terribly.

I didn't let many people this close into my life. Why Francis stuck around after all these years still boggled my mind. Being rude was a defensive mechanism. I hurt others before they could hurt me. Francis, however, was one of the few people who bit back with insults of his own. I never knew what to expect with this man. Perhaps that's why I was so afraid to let him in…

"I came here to get a tattoo!" Francis declared proudly.

I blinked several times, contemplating his words. Then, like the emotional porcupine that I was, I went on the offensive. I would call Francis out on his bluff. Surely, he didn't actually intend to get a tattoo…right?

"Oh God," I feigned shock. "You're not serious, are you?"

"Of course I am!" Francis chuckled, azure eyes burning holes into my own. "You're stubborn, and this is the only way to make you believe me."

"Fine," I relented, smirking as I bent down to grab a stack of freshly printed release forms. "What would you like? Do you have a drawing for me to imitate? Or perhaps, you'd like to pick a design from our catalogue?"

I licked my lips, waiting for Francis to cave. So far, he wasn't budging. I'd make sure to change that soon enough.

"How about I let you pick one for me?" Francis suggested, batting his lashes. "I'd like one on my forearm, just like you," he purred.

"I don't see how this is proving anything," I muttered. "Give me your arm."

Francis let me take his right arm. It took an immense effort on my part to keep my hands steady as I pushed up his sleeve.

"Pity," I remarked, running my fingers over the smooth skin of his forearm. "I can hardly imagine tainting such pearly white skin with _permanent_ ink."

Francis wavered. "Well, as they say," he smiled weakly. "Lovers should be willing to dedicate their body and soul to their partner…"

"Did you just imply that I'm your partner?" I asked, biting the inside of my cheek. Bloody hell. The cringe was just too strong for me not to be embarrassed. How could he be so brash and open like this? If I wasn't so perturbed, I would have felt admiration for him…

"Surely, you'll have to go out with me after this, non?" Francis smiled, his eyes filled with strain.

I couldn't bear to look at him, otherwise my own bluff would be called out. Instead, I poked and prodded at his forearm with my nails, making sure to dig them in occasionally. "Those are some bold words," I smirked. "Perhaps we should match that with some even bolder tattoos. I know the perfect design for you!"

"Sign those forms, I just have to get the machine ready," I smiled, baring my fake fangs.

I plugged in the chord for the liner machine, the familiar hum of the monstrous contraption sounding like music to my ears. From the corner of my eye, I saw Francis fill out the release form, his entire body stiff and his face paler than milk.

Satisfied with his reaction, I turned around, determined to make him sissy out before it was too late. Francis was merely trying to impress me. I was going to make him crack. He cared too much about his appearance to willingly let something blemish his 'flawless' appearance. "Done already?" I asked.

Francis weakly nodded his head.

"Well then," I drawled. "Roll up your sleeve. I was thinking of giving you a skull and roses tattoo. Just like that one," I pointed to a drawing hung up on the wire behind me. "It's one of my _favourites_ …"

"H-how wonderful! I'd love that!" Francis just about squeaked, his lips trembling. "It'll represent my 'dying' passion for you~"

 _Cheeky bastard._

We were both too prideful to give in to the other. At least, not yet anyway.

I grabbed Francis's arm again. "Jesus Christ!" I exclaimed. "Loosen up, will you?"

"D-desole," Francis apologized.

I shook Francis's rigid arm, but his tense muscles refused to uncoil themselves.

We both fell into a stubborn silence as I marked up his arm with a fine sharpie pen, sitting him down in a chair.

"You know," I mused. "It's not too late to change your mind."

"N-non!" Francis refused. "I want this…I want you…"

My face burned again. Thankfully, Francis was looking anywhere but me.

I grabbed the inking pen. "Last chance?" I taunted.

 _Silence._

I clicked a button, causing the pen to vibrate.

"I'm really doing it."

"O-Oui, I know."

"It's going to hurt…"

"Love demands pain sometimes…"

"Here it comes."

Francis swallowed heavily. "I _can't_ wait."

I brought the vibrating pen closer and closer to his forearm, my eyes flickering towards Francis. The Frog was showing no signs of backing out. He had his eyes shut tight, his jaw clenched in nervous anticipation.

 _Damn it. This has gone too far._

I turned off the inking pen. "For fuck's sakes, Francis," I deadpanned, letting go of his arm. "Did you really think I'd force you into getting a tattoo that you didn't want? You bloody, stupid, stubborn bastard."

I despised how I had been the first one to give in.

Francis slowly opened his eyes, breathing for the first time in what must have been minutes. He muttered something in French, most likely a prayer of gratitude, before he fainted, his head lolling against the back of the chair.

"Fuck," I cursed.

I grabbed the bouquet of roses he had given me, sticking them under his nose. "Here Frenchie, Frenchie, Frenchie," I cooed. "Here's your daily fix of flamboyance and sunshine."

No response.

I quickly lost my patience.

"Come on you effeminate scoundrel, wake the fuck up already!"

I then took it upon myself to slap his cheek, scowling at the roughness of the stubble peppering his jawline.

Francis spluttered awake. "Q-quoi? What happened?!"

"You wanted to get a tattoo, I called out your bluff, and then you fainted," I muttered bitterly, crossing my arms.

Francis's cheeks became pink. "Oh," he murmured. "That sounds like something I would do."

Francis stood up, wobbling to the side.

I grabbed his arm, steadying him. For someone so thin, he sure did weigh a lot. "What the hell do you think you're doing? You need to sit down and wait until the dizzy spell passes. And lay off the wine and bread, will you? You're not going to stay thin forever," I grumbled.

Francis laughed, shrugging of my arm. "Silly Arthur, I'll be fine. My pride is what needs to be salvaged. Besides, wine and bread is good for the soul. I won't ever give up those luxuries, just like I won't ever give up on you."

I watched him in stunned silence as he staggered towards the front door. "I'll be back, Mr. Kirkland. You can count on it."

"You're never going to leave me alone, are you? Idiot."

Francis chuckled warmly, sending chills running up my spine. "Oui. Not once have you ever said that you didn't want me. It's only a matter of time before you realize that I'm the one you need."

"I-! Just wait a minute!"

 **BRING!**

Francis left the parlour, leaving me speechless once again.

I cupped my flushed face, burying it in my hands. "Damn him. Fuck me," I cursed.

I paused, realizing the double meaning of what I had just said. "FUCK!"

…

Lukas came in a few hours later to take over my shift.

"Arthur?"

"Wot?!"

"Why is your face so red? Do you have a fever?"

"No, why do you ask? And what's that smug look on your face for?!"

Lukas sighed, an unreadable expression on his face. "Looks like that Frenchman finally got through to him," he muttered to himself.

"Wot was that?!"

"Nothing."

…

 _One week later…_

I was beginning to grow worried. I hadn't seen Francis's ugly amphibian mug for close to a week now. Don't get me wrong; I enjoyed the quiet. But, I couldn't help but wonder: What if he _did_ decide to give up on me? Had I really been that awful to him?

I couldn't explain it, but I felt empty. As a man of routine, I expected things to run according to schedule. So when they didn't, I felt…off.

As if the God's were testing me, seeing how long my patience would wane, a familiar face in an unfamiliar get-up walked into the parlour. My jaw dropped, and I burst out laughing.

Francis had 'gothed' up. His blond hair was replaced with a black wig, making his blue eyes appear to be sharper than before, despite the copious amounts of eyeliner and eyeshadow that covered his eyelids. His shallow, slender nose now had a ring embedded at the tip of it, with plenty of other lip piercings to complement it underneath. His face was much paler, so pale in fact that I suspected him of wearing face makeup. His lips were painted a matted black, tight and held in a firm 'stoic' grimace. For his outfit, he was wearing a graphic Metallica t-shirt, tight black skinny jeans, and matching combat boots.

"Dear lord!" I guffawed, wiping tears from my eyes. "Did you just come back from a ritual of sacrificing virgins?"

Francis's 'stoic' expression lifted, his painted lips curling into a predatory grin. "What, do you not like my outfit?"

"Of course not!" I wheezed, bending over to clutch my rib-cage. "You look bloody ridiculous."

Francis furrowed his brows. "I don't understand? I'm dressed just like you?"

And then he became angry.

"Mon dieu! You're impossible to please!" Francis snapped, raking his hand through his fake black locks. The piercings were also fake. "It took me several days to make myself look like…like this!"

I faltered. "No one asked you to do this for me."

"But I wanted to!" Francis threw his hands up into the air.

"Sorry to shit on your emo parade, but not everything can go your way, you know," I smirked.

"I dyed my hair for you!"

 _Oh bollocks._

My mouth parted open in shock. Francis's hair was the thing most dear to him. "Francis," I began, swallowing heavily. I was still stunned that he had taken things _this_ far. And what for? To impress me? To win me over?

"Don't tell me that dye's permanent," I croaked, biting my lip. I felt downright awful.

Francis groaned, looking up at the ceiling. "Oui, it is."

I left the front counter, walking up to him. "You're such an idiot," I scoffed. "I don't even use real dye."

"You don't?" Francis asked.

"My Mum would disown me," I smiled weakly. "She's an uptight and traditional sort of person."

"Oh," Francis breathed, winded by his own shock. "I see…"

"Well fuck," I placed both hands on my hips. "What now? This is quite possibly the sweetest thing anyone's ever done for me."

Francis finally met my gaze, hope sparking in his eyes. "Really?"

"Yes, really," I huffed, thoroughly embarrassed to be admitting something so personal. "Now can we get back to the part where I lecture you for being an idiot?"

"Oui," Francis bowed his head.

In response, I reached over and placed my hand over the back of his head, ruffling his hair lightly.

"You looked better before," I said gruffly. "If I can't spell it out to you, then I'll just be outright with it. You don't have to change anything about yourself to please me. I wouldn't have kept you around if I hadn't liked you. Likewise, you don't have to prove anything to me. The fact that you stayed all this time is enough proof in itself."

"Arthur...?" Francis looked up at me finally.

I sighed. "Fine. I'll go on a date with you. I've finally succumbed to the realization that I'll never truly get rid of you."

Francis squealed, surprising me when he pulled me into a hug. "Oh, mon petit hedgehog!" he cooed. "So you do have a heart~!"

I awkwardly patted Francis's back, blushing furiously. "Yes, yes. I think that's already been established. Now if you could please remove yourself from my torso and let me breathe, that'd be very much appreciated."

Francis pulled away, straightening his posture as he beamed down at me.

"I'll go pick up a packet of hair dye from the drugstore. It's painful looking at you like this," I muttered.

Francis cupped my cheek, batting his mascara coated lashes. "As a true French, I'll do anything for love. Eh, perhaps I did go a bit overboard with this look though…"

I leaned into Francis's touch, sighing contently.

As an Englishman who worshipped clever wordplay, I couldn't dream of missing out on this opportunity to make a good pun. "Just a tat too much," I mused. "Now c'mere, you. Let's rub off that lipstick of yours."

Francis and I exchanged smirks before he bent down and kissed me.

Although the smudge of his lipstick on my lips wouldn't last, his unconditional love had forever marked a place in my cold, bitter heart.

Tattoos weren't the only things that could be permanent, after all.

 **~The End**


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